


and all the things we dream about

by ShatterinSeconds



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Japanese Keith (Voltron), M/M, Writer Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 21:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatterinSeconds/pseuds/ShatterinSeconds
Summary: “I believe this is as good a place as any to share my story, don’t you think?” Lance raises his voice before it melds in with the lyrical jazz drifting from the corner of the speakeasy. The dim light from the lamps casts strange shadows across both their faces.Keith blinks one, two, three times before Lance’s words sink in. Pulling out a small journal and a pen he always keeps on his person, he catches Lance’s lips quirking in surprise as a short chuckle escapes him.“My, aren’t you prepared?”“I am a writer,” Keith responds. “And thank you, for helping me.”(or Keith is a writer in 1920s America and Lance is (basically) his muse)





	and all the things we dream about

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Retrospect, a Vintage Klance Zine, and we are now allowed to post our pieces. I was given the 1920s, which is one of my favorite decades to write Klance in.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_ New York City _

* * *

_ Monday, October 11th, 1926 _

“Are you feeling well, sir?”

Keith’s frazzled mind clears as he finds himself staring at a man--selling newspapers, he believes, spying a stack of extra copies near his feet and a can with a few loose coins resting at the bottom. His smile is warm; his blue eyes sparkle under a worn page-boy hat--short locks of curling brown hair peek out from under it. Back facing the sun, his whole figure becomes outlined in golden rays. This man is beautiful, wonderfully beautiful.

Ducking his head, Keith stares at the ground, his hair shadowing his eyes, tracking the grooves in the concrete, and tries not to think of this stranger who must be a lost eighth wonder of the world. “I-I am, thank you.”

“You looked as if you were about to murder someone. I feared for my life for a moment.” With this statement, Keith’s gaze swings upwards, a grimace--and an apology--set on his lips until he is caught by the look in the man’s eyes. A second passes before Keith realizes that his smile is still apparent--it has not dimmed in the slightest, if anything, it has grown brighter. The man teases him.

“I apologize for startling you,” Keith breathes, “My temper… it, ah, it’s difficult to control at times.”

Two minutes ago, Keith had explained to his publishers where they could shove their magazine, proceeding to leave the building with no job and a story tingling at his fingertips. They told him that it was stupid to want to write about  _ real  _ things. He wasn’t a journalist, they said, he was only a fiction writer, paid to spin fantastical stories for their magazine that people could read for a quarter. 

He is slowly becoming acclimated to the snide comments directed his way about how he will never be able to accomplish certain things. A part of him has even begun to believe it.

The man tilts his head, eyes drifting over Keith’s face as if he reads every tumbling thought cycling through Keith’s mind. The afternoon sunlight streaks across his cheek, and his brown skin glows to highlight a patch of freckles. “I have heard from others that I can be a very good listener.”

Keith shakes his head, not wanting to burden a stranger with his problems. “Truly, it’s nothing.” Somehow the man’s quiet gaze, staring deep into Keith’s soul as his cheeks begin to darken from the chill of the air, causes him to continue--though, not unwillingly. “I was fired for saying how I felt… I want to write a book about people, everyday people and their stories. Something that is never told.” 

“That’s an admirable goal.” 

“It’s impossible in the long run,” Keith soldiers on with a defeated sigh, deciding to ignore the comment, “unless I find people willing to share their stories and journeys. I do not believe that even _ I’d  _ be willing to share mine with a stranger if asked.” 

Sheepishly, Keith palms the back of his neck as it dawns on him that he has done just  _ that  _ with the man in front of him. His eyes flicker around the street in the hope that a pedestrian will stop for a paper, anything to interrupt this onslaught of embarrassment. Everyone continues to walk onward.

“I think people can be more outspoken than you believe.” The man grins. “I’m Lance McClain,” he says after a moment. He holds his gloved hand out in front of him, and Keith clasps it.

Mr. McClain’s hands are warm for a mid-October day, compared to Keith’s already frigid skin--this is nothing more than a true marvel in his eyes. “Keith Kogane,” he supplies at last. Their hands stay connected for a second longer than usual before Keith reluctantly pulls back. 

Immediately, he misses that warmth… a sensation that lingers when the day becomes night and Keith realizes how small and alone he feels in his home with only a pen and paper and no words.

_ July 1927 _

The summer heat in an unventilated apartment thickens the air. One of the windows is broken, forever stuck in the closed position, and the only other one, that creaks when it opens for all to hear, never catches the occasional breeze. The strips of linen that serve as semi-functional curtains have not moved since Keith hung them. Sweat beads up on his brow as the letters on the page swim in front of him; he has been writing for too long now.

Warm hands slide over his shoulders, kneading his taut skin, and a stifled groan of gratitude manages to escape from his lips. Keith arches his head back and stares up at Lance. “Hey, beautiful,” Lance whispers to him, grins, and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead. The pen rolls across the desk as Keith’s hand relaxes when he allows his whole body to simply give in. 

“I believe that was supposed to be my line,” Keith says. It’s the summer which means the freckles on Lance’s skin have darkened considerably. They create little constellations on his skin that Keith always finds himself tracing when the other sleeps.

They have been courting for almost a year. Privately, of course, as the world is not ready for them yet. Keith yearns for an eternity with Lance, though he doubts he’ll even be granted half of that time.

“You need to relax more,” Lance says for what Keith could count as the hundredth time.

Keith’s hand grazes Lance’s cheek in a gentle touch before he sits forward again. “I need to finish this.”

Not pleased with Keith’s reply, Lance tries again, this time maneuvering himself between Keith and his desk. His stare bores into Keith’s soul as he crosses his arms. “You need me to distract you.”

The thought intrigues Keith, but he also grimaces at all the stories still left untold; he flexes his writing hand. “One more chapter?”

“If you must,” Lance concedes with a sudden cheeky smile tingling at his lips. He swoops in to steal a kiss from Keith’s lips as a condition to their pact, and Keith almost wants to chase after him when they separate. Instead, Keith returns to his ink smudged pages.

_ Tuesday, October 12th, 1926 _

“I see our paths have crossed again, Mr. Kogane,” a voice to his right proclaims, and Keith adjusts his gaze in time to see Mr. McClain reaching for a seat at the bar beside him. His cap and coat have been left at the door to reveal a broad-shouldered, lean figure and a mess of wild, slightly curling hair--as if Mr. McClain carded a hand through those locks multiple times. 

“Keith,” he says without hesitation when he stares at the handsome man in full, “Call me Keith.”

Mr. McClain’s eyes glimmer. “Only if you call me Lance.”

“Of course,” Keith agrees, immediately gesturing to the bartender for two drinks. Something stirs inside of him, something that latches onto all of his impulsive tendencies. Keith cares little for the world he lives in tonight.

“I believe this is as good a place as any to share my story, don’t you think?” Lance raises his voice before it melds in with the lyrical jazz drifting from the corner of the speakeasy. The dim light from the lamps casts strange shadows across both their faces.

Keith blinks one, two, three times before Lance’s words sink in. Pulling out a small journal and a pen he always keeps on his person, he catches Lance’s lips quirking in surprise as a short chuckle escapes him. 

“My, aren’t you prepared?”

“I  _ am  _ a writer,” Keith responds. “And thank you, for helping me.”

They talk and talk and talk about not belonging in the country, about immigrating, about family members in faraway places. Keith learns about Lance’s four other siblings and parents and how it was his  _ tío  _ who had taken him to America when he was young upon his mother’s request. In turn, Keith allows himself to share the agony of trying to bring Shiro over from Japan when this ‘free’ country doesn’t allow for Asian immigration--Keith himself had been lucky enough to be born in America. Eight pages are crammed with notes, and his writing hand aches.

Then, when Keith believes there cannot be anything left to share or any more surprises from Lance--who has this aura around him that Keith is drawn towards--something new wanders its way to the surface. As a writer, Keith should have realized that the best details come when one least expects it.

Lance stares at the women on the dance floor, all of them with fluttering dresses and bobbed hair and male partners. He sighs. His fingers tap a beat on his drink. “I wish a couple of them would ask us to dance.”

Keith hums, barely glancing at the dance floor but keeps his gray-violet eyes trained on Lance instead. Something snaps inside him. “I suppose, but women do not suit my taste.” It slips through his tongue before he can quell the thought.

Whipping his head back, Lance pauses, trying to decipher the meaning in those words. Keith stares at him, lips pulled into a straight line, almost daring Lance to say something, to call him out on what he just admitted. A lazy smile appears on Lance’s face in that moment, and he responds in a hushed tone. “I would say that’s surprising, but if I’m allowed to be honest, I had hoped that was true.”

Keith’s eyes widen a fraction before they flicker down to his still full drink. The amber liquid is silent. Even though he is unable to meet Lance’s eyes any longer, he manages to funnel his thoughts into sentences. “Truly? It seems you’re the one surprising me now.”

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you,” Lance responds, honesty filling the air though it is set in a quiet murmur, “When I saw you walking down those steps, you were frighteningly beautiful.”

Keith purses his lips, amused. “You must say such things to all the people you meet.”

“No, only to you.” Lance’s words are so quiet that they barely reach Keith’s ears; he strains to hear them. Upon realizing this, Lance’s eyes swing around the establishment, lips twisting into a dissatisfied frown. Only when Lance’s gaze returns to Keith’s face does he see the determination on Lance’s features. “It’s an excellent night for a stroll, wouldn’t you agree?”

Keith doesn’t hesitate with his response.

The amount of stars in the night sky seems to lessen each year, their beauty dimming as street lamps steal their power. Keith loves to stare at them despite this fact, and Lance catches him doing exactly that as they walk by the water’s edge.

“They make me feel quite insignificant,” Keith shares, “But I find I do not mind that.” The dark sky expands further and farther upwards; his eyes cannot hope to absorb everything the night has to offer. There are so many stars in the universe. It’s not surprising to think of the people who have gone mad thinking of what could be beyond all of that.

Lance hums in response, his hands clasped behind his back as his feet halt. With his head thrown back to stare at the sky, the moonlight dusts his features in a silvery glow, splashing across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “When I look at the stars, I see my family, for I know that they are looking at the same ones, the same moon even. The sky connects us all. I feel less alone in the world.”

“You need not be alone anymore.” A breeze cuts through Keith’s hair, and the ends tickle as they brush his skin. Lance’s hand reaches up to tuck away a lock of loose hair only to be startled by his own unexpected action. An apology balances on Lance’s tongue but Keith prevents it as his fingers grab hold of Lance’s raised hand, keeping it against his skin.

“I see you’re more brazen than me, Mr. Kogane,” Lance gently says in the space between them. By the water’s edge, there is no one around, and Keith allows himself to step a foot closer to Lance.

“I told you that you may call me Keith.”

“I know.”

When silence lingers for a moment too long, Keith blinks in slight disappointment--mostly at himself--and eventually they part to go their separate ways when sounds of other footsteps reach their ears.

_ August 1927 _

With a soft click, Lance closes the twin doors, cutting off access to the party behind them. For a moment, his white-gloved hands linger on the golden handles before he steps back as if having shaken himself out of whatever thoughts had clouded his mind. Keith watches closely from the stone railing. Lance wanders over to him with a feline-like-grace, hand intertwining with Keith’s own as the other is placed on his hip. 

Keith allows Lance to guide him across the balcony. He twirls Keith around the small area, their shoes scraping against the stone. The music is muffled behind the curtained doors; it’s almost a struggle to hear the notes, the soft jazz, but the sounds manage to rumble in their hearts. 

Keith had been invited to the party--courtesy of Coran, a rich donor to the publishing house who remembered Keith after all these months. The invitation was handwritten, the loops of the letters almost falling off the page, and relaid how Coran deeply missed their weekly chats. Lance’s arms wrapped around Keith’s waist as they finished reading the invite together--but it had been Lance who urged him to attend; Keith doesn’t believe that he would have gone otherwise.

Yet, after two hours since they arrived at the party, they have finally found time to be alone and a secluded place to be in. Keith’s fingers grip the material of Lance’s tux--who knew he owned such a garment?--as he breathes in Lance’s entire essence. With their bodies close, their lips are only an inch apart.

“I have told you that I love you, yes?” Lance asks, blue eyes soulful as he becomes outlined in the silver rays of the full moon. 

“Many times.”

The bow of Lance’s lips dips into a smile. “I’m glad.”

When they settle into simply swaying together, bodies pressed against each other and hands holding on tight, Keith’s head falls onto Lance’s shoulders, nuzzling into his neck. The stars are the only ones to witness the act.

_ Friday, October 15th, 1926 _

Keith stumbles into Lance McClain--physically stumbles into him--for a third time when he leaves his apartment building to find some sort of side job. It has been a few days since their second and what Keith honestly thought would be their last meeting. Something inside attempts to break free again, and Keith wonders if he should curb the feeling this time.

“What are you doing here?” Keith idly stares at the man, hands slipping into his pockets, suddenly not in a hurry to find work after all. But too many coincidences begin to creep up on him. He steps back. “Are you… are you  _ following  _ me?” he questions, a growl locked in the back of his throat. 

Eyes widening, Lance wildly waves his hands to free themselves of this misunderstanding. “I swear, I didn’t know this was your residence. I change locations every few days.” Lance breathes when Keith’s expression fades, once again, into nonchalance, and he pulls off his cap to run a hand raggedly through his hair. “Though, if I may say, I’m not disappointed to find myself in your company again.” 

“This  _ has  _ been a pleasant surprise. I will admit to that.” Heat springs up on Keith’s cheeks again as he watches Lance’s gaze dip to the floor in a brief bout of shyness. At least it seems Keith’s overly impulsive actions from last time did not scare Lance away.

Lance’s feet shuffle on the concrete before he lifts his head, blue eyes dazzling in the early morning sun. “I’ve managed to read a few of your stories.”

“Oh?” Keith arches an eyebrow. “And what did you think of them?”

“They held my interest; the one about the knight was fascinating. But,” Lance pauses for a moment, eyes swinging across Keith’s face to drink him in, “I did not see  _ you  _ in any of them.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Keith jokes for a moment, eyes drifting across the headline of the newspaper--nothing of interest. Then he meets Lance’s gaze, whose mouth is quirked in amusement. “But yes, I do agree with you. I only wrote those for money, nothing more.”

Lance hums a short, breathy tune before proceeding with, “Was my story able to help you at least?”

“Yes, it did. I’ve already written at least thirty pages, so thank you again.” Lance’s mouth pops open in awe, but before he can comment, Keith decides to leap from a cliff and hope he lands in Lance’s embrace. “Do you, do you think you would like to share more over another drink?”

Lance dips into a small bow. “I’d be honored to.”

They share drinks tonight in a hole-in-the-wall club that Keith stumbled onto one night after his previous favorite establishment had been raided by the police. It’s a quaint underground place with bricked walls and few people and no live music. The stool creaks under Lance’s weight as he shifts to ask Keith another question. “Am I the only person you are writing about?” A wishful, teasing smile appears on his lips.

“No, I do have to interview others. I want to get  _ everyone’s  _ story.”

Lance’s smile breaks into a toothy grin. “And here I thought I was special.”

“You are,” Keith replies without hesitation, and his fingers drum on the glass of his drink as a strong blush heats his cheeks. He’s only slightly mortified.

With the bartender distracted in the back cleaning glasses, Lance grasps the opportunity to lean in, lips brushing the shell of Keith’s ear. He whispers, “May I walk you home?” Keith can only nod, speech failing him.

By ‘walking Keith home,’ Lance had apparently meant walking Keith all the way up to his floor. In light of this, Keith finds himself inviting Lance inside for a moment, if only to be completely alone with the man for the first time that night.

The apartment is a small, two-room cheap place, the only thing he could afford on this side of the city. It is stifling during the summer and freezing in the winter. But this place is home, and Lance molds himself into the chaotic mess. Though only here for a brief minute, Lance wanders around the room, fingers brushing over the loose-leaf pages on Keith’s desk, reading some of the words already written. Patches of ink are smudged on the page from too many mistakes. 

“So, this is what a writer’s life looks like.” Lance slowly spins around the room, arms stretched out as if trying to absorb it all.

“Glamorous, isn’t it?” Keith asks with a short laugh.

“Very.”

Before he departs, Lance reaches for Keith’s hand, placing a chaste kiss on his knuckles, soft lips brushing his skin. Keith’s hand quickly slips from Lance’s, and the man lifts his head to discover a small scowl on Keith’s face. “It’s only me, Lance. There’s no need to be a gentleman.”

“Is there a specific place you’d like me to show my affection then?” Lance asks coyly, spine straightening.

“I would love to toy with you,” Keith begins, leaning into Lance’s personal space. “But I’m afraid that I do not have the patience for such a game.”

Lance’s eyes gleam with mischief as he wraps his arms around Keith’s waist, those warm hands on his back, fingers splayed across the fabric of Keith’s shirt though he can feel every bit of that touch. Keith’s hands glide into Lance’s silky hair. When Lance’s lips tug at his own, he melts.

Keith hopes this is his new forever. 

_ September 1927 _

Lance whistles an old Spanish lullaby as Keith shoves all his papers into a large envelope while they walk along the street. He grumbles curses as the papers refuse to cooperate, the corners bending with each push, and it takes a moment for Keith to remember to breathe. His fingers tremble against the envelope. With hands clasped behind his back, Lance halts his song, eyes flickering over Keith’s face. And suddenly Keith startles to feel warm fingers brushing a loose lock of hair away from his face despite the public atmosphere. 

When he glances up at Lance, envelope held tight against his body and that brief anger simmering down, he finds Lance is anything but concerned. “Your book is excellent,” Lance begins, voice soft. “The new publishers will love it.”

“I--”

Lance bops him on the nose only for Keith to scrunch it up at the touch. “Ahah, from now on you will only say good things about your writing. Do not back out now for you know you will regret it.” Suddenly, a hand is held out in front of Keith, and under the brim of Lance’s hat, blue eyes shine in tandem with the calmest ocean. “We do this  _ together _ .” 

Keith grabs onto Lance’s hand, too determined to ever let go again.

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don’t post on Mondays but hopefully this made someone’s day a little better.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos:)


End file.
